


Doubt the stars are fire

by Mariquita



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: But not quite, End of the World, M/M, Painful Sex, Series Spoilers, weird relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10015907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariquita/pseuds/Mariquita
Summary: Some people just want to watch the world burn. Really.





	

**Doubt the stars are fire**

 

In the end, there’s really nothing more that he can do. So he takes a swig from a bottle of vodka and feels the liquid burning down his throat. He hasn’t been drinking long, but he already feels unsteady and quite adrift. He fixes one hand on the tempered glass and it’s cool and solid to the touch. It’s a long drop to the street below. 70 floors to be exact.

Right outside, there’s chaos. Police cars and fire trucks are arriving in droves. Choppers are beaming down floodlights into buildings, streets. It’s like a city under siege. He thinks of Krista, and a million others like her, watching the news unfold on TV. It’s only a matter of hours now and their already frayed sense of security will go down the drain.

Over the horizon, several smaller structures are simultaneously bursting into flames, adding more orange to the night sky’s already vermilion blaze. He wonders how many people have died or are dying right this very moment because of him. Shayla. Gideon. A hundred others on night shift in those buildings. He wonders, too, how far away they are from all that carnage, sheltered in this penthouse with floor to ceiling windows, drinking vodka, listening to jazz.

“He has a ton of records,” somebody is droning in the background. “This one is my favorite. It’s just him, solo on the piano. Listen…”

Just a few hours ago, he had been on the subway— _on his way back from where?_ He had a feeling that something wasn’t right, like his brain had been taken apart and then put back together. Except it was all scrambled now and he couldn’t even remember where he was supposed to go. His phone vibrated as if on cue and it’s a Fifth Avenue address. The sender’s details were encrypted. He wished it was Angela, hoped it was Angela. She’d tell him that everything was all right. He made his way to the penthouse— _doesn’t she live in one?_ —but instead he found Tyrell drinking champagne straight from the bottle. “Elliot!” he called from a sectional sofa he had somewhat managed to get to face the skyline. “You’re just in time,” he said, with not a hint of irony in his voice. Then the first of the explosions lit the night sky an orange-red.

And so, here they are. The world is possibly ending and Tyrell is asking him to listen to Thelonious Monk.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” Tyrell says flatly beside him and Elliot doesn’t know if he’s still referring to the music or the apocalyptic view. Elliot gives him a sidelong glance. Tyrell’s arms are folded across his chest; his face set in a hard line.

“I prepared for this.” Prepared for what exactly? This nightmare? No wonder he’s dressed to the nines, not a hair out of place. Tyrell stares at the inferno across the other part of the city and Elliot thinks of Greek statues.

“We shouldn’t have done this,” Elliot says, swaying a little, the vodka feeling too warm and heavy in his gut.

In response, Tyrell’s lips part to smile a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.

There’s a look in his eyes that’s feral. Elliot remembers the time he sneaked into his apartment and he explained how he strangled a woman to death. _I can kill you as easily as I killed her_ , that was what he was telling him without actually saying the words.

Before he knows it, Tyrell is grabbing him by the front of his hoodie and is leading him to the sofa where he pushes him down roughly. The leather material feels a little dusty under Elliot’s fingers and he briefly wonders whose penthouse this really is. Possibly one of the Dark Army’s assets, listed under a false name.

“You executed without me,” Tyrell is saying, as if it will explain why he’s straddling Elliot, or why he’s ripping his own tie off and unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“You promised we’d do it together.” It must be a fact because Tyrell says it with such conviction. But Elliot doesn’t remember promising this; he doesn’t remember a lot of things.

Tyrell is strangely calm and methodical as he peels away Elliot’s hoodie and shirt, as he starts working on the button of his jeans. But Elliot soon finds out that it’s a façade when Tyrell finally bends down to give him a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and no hint of elegance at all. It’s no accident when Tyrell snags his bottom lip and bites down hard. He tastes tangy and sweet from the champagne, coppery from his own blood. A chill runs down his spine when he realizes that this—whatever this is—is going to hurt.

“I resent that, you know. I thought we were partners,” Tyrell says when he breaks the kiss. Elliot stares up into his face. There are beads of sweat along his forehead, hair sticking up in places. He looks as though he’s expecting Elliot to answer, so he does. He says, _no we’re not._ Elliot sees anger take over his features and he’s flipping him over on his stomach, bending him from the waist so that he’s on all fours. Maybe this really is the perfect ending for this “revolution” as Robot wants to call it.

He hears Tyrell spit twice behind him and he tries to imagine a man of his stature spitting on the side of the road. It’s strange. What’s even stranger is the feeling of two fingers slipping inside him and opening him up. Tyrell isn’t kind about that either and Elliot almost regrets answering him back.

He’s barely ready when he feels Tyrell pressing inside and Elliot is wound up too tight so the slide in hurts like hell. But Tyrell doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed flush against him.

“You okay,” Tyrell breathes into his neck and it’s not a question. No. No, he’s not okay. He feels stretched and split open. But he doesn’t say anything. He just screws his eyes shut and tries to focus on the sound of the piano flitting out through the fancy speakers.

So Tyrell starts fucking him like he has something to prove and it’s painful. Elliot thinks that maybe this will finally get the message across to Robot who is currently sleeping in the dark recesses of his brain. The fact is this: that he is sprawled in somebody else’s apartment, and he is getting fucked right in front of the goddamn windows. Which is quite mundane, if you come to think about it. And that just proves his point. He isn’t above basic human function. In fact, he’s quite ordinary. He’s no hero or prophet; he most definitely is not a god.

He feels Tyrell spill inside him but the thrusts keep coming, less painful now but wet and messy. He stops only when he’s too soft to continue. Elliot hears him whisper a hasty “sorry” to his ear before slipping out.

Elliot slumps back down to the sofa and the leather is damp with sweat. The music has stopped playing but the horizon is still ablaze outside the windows. His whole body feels raw, like he’s been flayed. Maybe he rode the wrong train earlier this evening and he had actually taken a trip down to hell. Tyrell covers him with a throw blanket and sits up still naked on the opposite side of the sofa. It’s long enough for them not to be touching.

Minutes pass and the blaze seems unstoppable. He doesn’t know why, but when he thinks of fire he always remembers his mother, her cigarette perpetually poised between her middle and index fingers, her hard eyes telling him: _It’s all your fault, Elliot. It’s all your fault._

He can’t bring himself to cry even if he wants to. He thinks of Angela. He thinks of Darlene. He hopes to god that they are safe because he doesn’t know what he’ll do to himself if they aren’t. His phone rings, but before he can reach it, Tyrell is already fishing it out from his hoodie on the floor.

Elliot sits up, watching the glow of the screen fix odd shadows on Tyrell’s face.

“Who is it?” he asks and he doesn’t stop Tyrell when he cracks open his phone to take the sim card out.

Tyrell shrugs.

“Who’s the one person who’d call you in the middle of the night?” He’s busy rummaging through Elliot’s clothes.

There’s one person and it’s Angela. Elliot remembers kissing her on the subway a few months ago. They haven’t spoken about it at all, like there’s some magic in it that would likely disappear if they did. So they went back to their usual dynamics, talking about the good old days back at home when life was simpler, and their biggest problems were zits and curfew.

Elliot watches as Tyrell sets his sim card on fire with a lighter and drops it to the floor where it crumples up and melts.

“You know we have to disappear, right?” Tyrell says, his gaze still set over the horizon. That’s why they are here, to say goodbye to the city.

Somehow, Elliot already knows this, and he regrets not telling Angela that he loves her from the depths of his soul.

Elliot feels Tyrell’s hand wrap around his ankle, his thumb brushing gently against the hollow of his achilles. An apology, maybe? A last desperate attempt to convince himself that it’s all worth it? That Elliot is worth it?

“I’m sorry I’m all you got,” Elliot says into the darkness.

He catches Tyrell looking straight at him with a smile that reveals absolutely nothing.

“You’re all I ever asked for,” he answers.

**Author's Note:**

> or basically, i cannot handle the wait for season 3.
> 
> elliot/tyrell/angela. i can't understand them either.


End file.
